


Object writing

by Clarounette



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-19 09:29:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11894847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clarounette/pseuds/Clarounette
Summary: Various very short texts based on a object or a concept.





	Object writing

### Ding

It's dark inside. And cold. Shadows crawl on the pillars and the benches, on the faces of the statues. The organ reverberates against the grey stone of the walls. Far ahead, two tiny figures stand face to face, in black and white, in front of a man in a robe. A happy light falls on them from a round window. Hopes and whishes are flying around silently. Thoughts of the future. Dreams of an infant. I shudder. From the cold or from the floating thoughts, I don't know. On a last note on the organ, people are starting to stand and walk to the door. We all run to the light, to the bright summer day. The heat washes the goose bumps from our arms. And the bells ring, and toll, shouting the couple's happiness to a sympathetic sky. The young woman in white, and her new husband dressed in dark grey, exit the church with a smile on their face, under our assault. Grains of rice are thrown to their departing figures. I wish them all the best.

 

### Ceramic

A earthy smell fills the room, with a chemical aftertaste. A smell of hard work and multiple attempts. The potter sits on his tool in front of a large chunk of shapeless clay. His foot presses lightly on the pedal and the clay starts to turn, and turn, and turn. The man's fingers brushes the wet surface, playing it like a precious instrument, feeling its hidden form. Listening to its silent voice. Push here ; press there ; make me beautiful. The clay vibrates under the potter's palm, calling him. When it dries too much, the man plunges his hands in a pot of water, and goes back to work. He has a sacred call, a divine mission : to create beauty out of nothing, out of earth. It will be no human creature, but the pottery, whatever it ends up to be, will diffuse pleasure and satisfaction in the heart of countless art lovers, and, maybe, bring them a little closer to heaven.

 

### Primordial

A second before – at least it seemed so – the world had been red and black, fire and night. Then came the water. It poured on the charred land, steam rising and filling the sky. So much water that it created seas and oceans. And life. A little blob at first, floating around in the primordial ocean. Lonely and scared, it created another blob just like it, a clone. And they both created friends. When they were enough, they organized, and they decided they would be an animal. We all come from that bubble of life, lost in an hostile world.

 

### Crocodile

The forest was anything but silent. Exotics birds answered each others from the top of the trees. Wild animals, hunting others, or just enjoying a group moment, were crying and laughing and roaring. A river was meandering through the trees. A large trunk was floating on its brown water, following its current. Suddenly, the piece of wood changed its direction and came to the bank. It wasn't a tree. It was a crocodile. The bulky reptile crawled out of the river, its large tail wiggling behind him. The crocodile was hungry.

 

### Noggin

It's cold this morning. I exhale a little white cloud. The sky is still dark outside, and the bright light in the kitchen hurts my eyes. I blink. I sigh. My eyelids keep falling. I'm not sure my mind is awake yet. I need something black and strong. I brew some coffee. The earthy smell fills the kitchen. I pour some in a large mug, and take it in my hands. Its warmth revives my numb fingers. I breathe in its bitterness. I gulp its strength. In the quietness of this winter morning, hot coffee is my ally, and I cherish it. I finish the cup and put it in the sink. Brown stains on the lid are proof of the need I have for coffee so early in the morning. The yellow smiley face on the cup bids me a good day.

 

### Wristwatch

Tick tock tick tock. To walk around with the time in your hand is kind of magical. One second, you smile at a pretty face. Two seconds, you're pushed by some rude guy who grunts an insult. Three seconds, you wait at a crossroad. Four, five, six, seven seconds. Eight seconds, you cross the road with half a dozen other people who look at their feet. Nine seconds, you stumble. Ten seconds, a young woman asks you if you're okay. You're fine. You check your watch. Tick tock tick tock. A little closer to 9 o'clock, and you're almost there. Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen seconds. You're in front of the coffee shop, and she's here. You watch her through the window. She's beautiful. She's reading a book, a cup of tea in front of her on the table. You look at your watch once again, and it's time. You push the door. You wish you could break that watch. You wish it would be enough to stop the time. You want this moment to last forever.

 

### Destruction

It was raining black. Flecks of ashes fell from the sky, from the dark cloud of smoke that floated above the forest. But there was light, light from the red tongue licking the trees. The rumble of the fire covered the birds' cries. The oaks and maples and chestnuts groaned from the pain of being burned to death. They creaked and cracked and fell, their leafy crown nothing more than black twigs and charred leaves. And just like that, for an abandoned match, a century old wood would be no more in the morning, when the smoke would be gone and the sun would rise above a grey desert.

 

### Sanctuary

Outside, the wind whistles between the high peaks crowned with ribbons of clouds. But in that old sanctuary, smelling of wood and spices, the only sound is the quiet humming of the monks. Eyes closed and frozen in time and space, they look inside their soul and talk to it. Their meditation will last hours or even days, during which no food will touch their tongue, no water will wet their lips. The moon will chase after the sun, and the sun will be back again the next day, but the room has no window. The light comes from candles that a boy changes discretely each day. The air the monks inhale between two prayers tastes of peace and serenity.

 

### Devilry

The darkness is almost complete. A maniacal laugh reverberates through the manor. A scent of decay and mold floats above the large black caldron, but it barely covers a more ancient smell of cruelty, death and poison. Heavy footsteps are getting closer and closer, matching the beats of my heart. The poor organ is pounding so hard that it threatens to break out of my chest. The cry of the wind between the cracks in the walls, the rustle of the antique curtains, the creaking of the floorboards under invisible feet... I shake with fear, but I can't move. I want to fly away, I want all this to be nothing more than a bad dream. But then the door opens, and a dark silhouette is facing me. When I finally see the glowing red eyes, I feel my heart ripping.

 

### Understated

Strain your ears if you want to hear her. Her tiny voice, her mousy voice, is barely audible above the sound of the wind. You can almost see through her fair skin. Her clothes are the color of the walls, of the tar, of the city's dirt. You'll miss her if you blink. If you hurt her, she won't cry, but there will be tears on her cheeks. If you shout at her, she will look down. She'll retreat in a safer place, in her mind, and you will never see her again. But if you love her, she will eclipse the sun. Her lovely face will fill your sky. And you know what ? You will never forget the moment you listened to her carefully. The moment you really looked at her, and she became visible.

 

### Point

The pencil scratched the thin blank paper, leaving a trail of black powder. Drawing lines and arabesques, the graphite slowly escaped from the tip until nothing was left but a blunt point. The artist sighed and retrieved his sharpener. He turned the pencil with a regular pace, the sound of the wood against the sharp blade filling the quiet room, the sound of an old and cranky cricket. Shavings fell in the bright red bin, followed by a rain of dark dust. When the pencil was pointy again, the artist got back to his paper.

 

### Kangaroo

The Australian bush was still and quiet. It lay under the blazing sun, dead. Even the bugs hid from the heat, either in the shadow of rare trees or in the dry soil. Like a scar in the plain's dusty flesh, a long road with glimmering tar wound lazily. On the side road, a peaceful animal sat, munching yellow grass. The kangaroo scratched its belly with its short front leg and stared at the horizon, waiting for its rumbling death. A large truck was driving fast in its direction.

 

### Jester

In the large room, dimly lit by the fireplace and multiple candelabra, the guests were festing noisily. Rows of plates lay on the tables, filled with various seasoned meat, or boiled vegetables. The King, sitting at the table at the back of the room, clapped his hands and effectively silenced his assembly. He called loudly. In an instant, the black doors of the room opened and a little guy entered. His colorful clothes formed a bright patch against the darkness of the room. He shook his head, and his hat, adorned with bells, made a jingling sound in the otherwise silent room. He walked to the King and knelt respectfully.

 

### Instant

He was there. You saw him out of the corner of your eyes. You blinked. He's gone. You're turning around in the middle of the crowd, but he's nowhere to be seen. He was tall, with brown hair and green eyes. There was a mole above his upper lips. He wore a dark blue sweater, and a white shirt under it. He smelled of wood and spices. You can hear his deep voice... He's a ghost from the past, a cloud of smoke that the wind has blown away. A memory of summer afternoons in the park with a bottle of water as the only shield against the heat. Of lazy evenings in front of the TV, eating crisps and snacks. Of silent rendez-vous around a table in a quiet restaurant. The salty tears rolling on your cheeks are bitter and cold. The crowd closes around you and you choke.

 

### Vendetta

She's lying in a puddle of her own blood, a large hole in the middle of her chest. The room already smells of death and decay. I bite my lips, repressing a howl that scratches my throat to get away. Her pale skin, paler than it was, is smeared with red drops, and her big blue eyes are looking blindlessly at the ceiling. I'll never hear her laugh again. She won't leave a noisy kiss on my cheek anymore, like she used to when she left home for school. The face of her murderer appears in front of me, the ghost that he'll be soon. A coppery taste fills my mouth. It's the taste of revenge, the taste of bad blood being spilled on the floor. I want my teeth to sink in the flesh of my ennemy. I'm going to tear his heart apart ; that's exactly what he's done to me. My chest hurts and I double up in pain. I walk to her and kneel. Under my palm, her flesh is cold when I close her eyes forever.


End file.
